


Actually

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9650828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Sam bemoans the woes of loving a beloved master to Lindir, who understands all too well.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Rivendell is a wondrous place, every bit as enchanting as Sam’s dreams, though different than anything he could have conceived. The reality is somehow more enigmatic, more awe-inspiring. He sits on a stone bench on a terrace high above the river, with the mountains and waterfalls far beyond, roaring steady and soothing in the distance. He can see great structures below, towering columns and rooftops and balconies embroidered like silk in exotic patterns. It takes his breath away.

But it isn’t what he stares at any more, because Frodo stands by the balcony, silhouetted in sunlight, and when his face twists in a smile of laughter, he looks more magical than even the elves. It’s all Sam can do to stay grounded, when he wants to float over to kneel at Frodo’s feat and confess his service again, his affection, his devotion. Frodo spares him a little look that makes his pulse beat twice as fast, and then the lord of Rivendell recaptures Frodo’s attention, and the two of them turn towards the sky, their Elven words swept off in the wind.

And Sam just sits on his little bench, wondering if everything he planned on this morning was a mistake. He was going to finally do it today. He’s come this far with Frodo and will go further if he has to. He doesn’t know if he can do it with the burden of his secret. He was going to take Frodo’s soft hands in his too-big ones and explain how very much in love he is, but then a great Elven vision stopped by and swept Frodo away.

And watching them speak so easily only reminds Sam how very far beneath them he is. He doesn’t have anything to offer Frodo, not really, not beyond companionship and loyalty. When Frodo finishes and inevitably wanders back to him, he’s not sure anymore what he’ll say.

He’s so lost in it that he doesn’t notice company of his own until it’s right beside him, and a tall figure settles gingerly onto the other end of the bench. Sam startles up at once, and Lindir—at least, he thinks it’s Lindir—gives him a small but friendly smile. He’s met Lord Elrond’s attendant on a few occasions, but sometimes, it can still be difficult to tell elves apart. This one is younger than most he’s seen, but still has the same long, deep brown hair of most, and the gold circlet about his head that seems to be their fashion. He holds a silver harp in his hands and plucks at it thoughtfully, his gaze wandering out to where Lord Elrond and Frodo stand.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Sam offers on habit, “But if this is your spot, I can find another.”

“No,” Lindir hums, his voice already like a song. “I have learned to enjoy the company of halflings well enough since Bilbo’s return.” He glances back to Sam and strokes absentmindedly across his strings, the supple sound sending a shiver down Sam’s spine. He likes all elves, at least, thus far, and especially any friend of Bilbo’s, and minstrels all the more. But Lindir frowns at him and goes on, “But you look weary. May I ask what troubles you?”

Nothing to burden an elf with. And Sam normally wouldn’t say anything for it, except that Lindir has such a soulful, understanding face, and Sam finds it difficult to lie to such a creature, even just by omission. He squirms in place and picks a random vine-covered pillar to stare at. Not holding Lindir’s eye helps lessen his embarrassment, but his cheeks still feel too hot. It’s difficult to explain to just anyone, and he starts slowly, “Do you know what’s it like to have such a grand master?”

But of course an elf couldn’t know. Lindir tilts his head in Sam’s peripherals. “It’s just difficult, you know, to serve someone who’s so very kind, and wise, and...” He pauses to look back towards the balcony, fumbling for the right words. He’s never been particularly good with them, and Frodo inspires so many. Finally, he finishes, “And beautiful.” Because no one’s ever been so lovely as Frodo is now, in the idyllic work of Rivendell with relief all over his pink cheeks, his eyes as bright as they’ve ever been, his burden safely tucked away and the joy of _elves_ relaxing his shoulders. His hair is still slightly tousled from bed. Sam’s fantasized one too many times about running his fingers through those dark curls. 

He can feel Lindir following his gaze, and he sighs miserably, “It eats away at you, one way or another. When you work for them and see them every day, and every day they’re only better to you, and you _know_ all the great things they know and have done, and you know you just couldn’t ever measure up.” He spares a glance at Lindir, who’s now lost in the picturesque scene of Lord Elrond and Frodo’s discussion, a gentle frown on his lips. Now that Sam’s started, he finds he can’t stop even without his audience’s attention, and he goes on, “It’s just a bother, is all, knowing you’ll have to be alone forever, and suffer in silence and whatnot, because you know you’ll never find anyone else you’ll want more, and how could you possibly be worthy of someone so perfect?”

Lindir, without so much as inclining his head towards Sam, murmurs, “Forever is a long time.”

Sam gloomily nods. “Well, when you’ve got such a great master, you’re doomed to it.” It’s not a nice thought. But every time Frodo opens his pink lips to chime something in a language Sam couldn’t hope to understand, his heart gives a little pang. He suddenly feels very foolish thinking he could be any sort of help to Frodo on this journey at all. Lord Elrond looks at Frodo like he’s exactly as precious as Sam knows he is.

There’s a lingering stretch of near silence. It almost startles Sam when Lindir quietly asks, “Is love not worth fighting for?”

Perhaps for an elf. They do have all those heart-wrenching songs and tales. Sam begrudgingly agrees, “It does that way, I suppose, when that person is so incredibly important to you—the very center of your world—and you feel like you absolutely couldn’t live without them, and you know someday they’ll have to go on some long, traitorous journey they likely won’t return from, and you don’t know if you’ll be allowed to follow—”

He gets carried away talking of it, because there’s so much to say about Frodo, who turns towards the bench, Lord Elrond following, and the two of them halt their speech to stroll forwards—Sam shuts his mouth immediately. He doesn’t know how he’ll ever recover if Frodo overhears his senseless babbling. The two of them wander closer, silence again setting over Sam and Lindir’s little bubble, until Lord Elrond and Frodo stop right at the edge of it.

Something comes over Sam—the same thing that always does when they’re this close, and now that he’s said it all, of course it’s worth fighting for, and the though of Frodo going off to wherever he must to be rid of that wretched ring tears Sam in two, so he opens his mouth, fully ready to blurt out that he just _will not be left behind_ , but Lindir suddenly jumps off the bench and gives him a start.

All eyes turn to the young elf clutching his harp so tightly to his chest. He gives Lord Elrond a quick bow, then rises and rushes all at once, “My lord, I apologize in advance for this unseemly display, but I simply cannot bear the thought of you sailing West without me at your side. I... I love you, my lord. Very, very deeply. I always have. And I would have continued to do so in silence, knowing I am dreadfully unworthy for such an accomplished, compassionate, and handsome lord, but I simply cannot bear this longing if you will leave this land and me with it.”

Sam’s mouth falls open. Elrond looks just as shocked, though only a moment ago, Sam would’ve sworn no elf capable of such an expression. Even Frodo’s become wide-eyed. 

Then Elrond recovers, swiftly straightening and slowly dawning a look of relieved endearment. He lifts one long hand to slip along Lindir’s pale cheek, and he murmurs, in the same common tongue as Lindir had been so politely speaking, “You are _most_ worthy, my darling Lindir, and I confess I had been hoping to hear such a marvelous confession from Imladris’ most beautiful minstrel for sometime. I am sorry if my idle plans distressed you, but I promise you I would not have sailed if it meant leaving you behind.”

Lindir’s face melts into such unbridled joy that Sam can _feel_ the warmth of it. Lindir smiles wide enough to dimple his cheeks, his eyes crinkling from it, and Lord Elrond presses forward to bestow Lindir with a chaste kiss that instantly has Lindir’s arms around him. Despite the courtesy of their language, the embrace feels distinctly intimate, overwhelming, and Sam has to look away. 

Frodo, giving the elves a fond look, turns back to Sam and laughs, “How lovely.”

Sam can only nod. Lindir doesn’t let go, but Lord Elrond detangles enough to sweep him off. With a parting nod to Frodo, Lord Elrond guides his nearly shaking attendant away, the two of them suddenly lost in a plethora of Elvish conversation. Even without knowing the words, Sam can tell it’s all wonderful. 

Frodo chuckles pleasantly in their wake, “How unexpected.” Still mystified, Sam nods, and Frodo stuffs his hands into his pockets and cheerfully asks, “Now, what was it that you wanted to speak to me about this morning before I went running off with Lord Elrond?”

Sam’s mouth is open again. He knows he’s blushing hotly. But the moment’s passed, and Lindir’s already stolen his thunder, so to speak. He doesn’t have the words anymore.

So he rubs the back of his head and mumbles, “Er, nothing important, sir.” But with a fraction of hope, he adds: “Maybe I’ll remember tomorrow.”

Frodo accepts it as perfectly as he does everything, offers an arm, and suggests, “Alright. Shall we go for a walk while you think of it, then?” And Sam nods, because everything’s a yes for Frodo, and then he has Frodo’s hand in his, and the two of them wander off to soak in the morning.


End file.
